The Brilliant and Beautiful Molly Hooper
by jankmusic
Summary: Hostage situations are not Molly Hooper's forte, but neither is performing emergency surgery…but she does it anyway.—A gift for the wonderful SammyKatz.


The Brilliant and Beautiful Molly Hooper

Prompt: Molly can do anything. Thanks SammyKatz for the prompt! I hope this fulfilled what you were looking for! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

* * *

Molly Hooper rubbed her eyes tiredly, feeling the fatigue seeping into her bones. She was shuffling forward slowly, wondering if drinking a pint of coffee would help keep her awake. Her feet and lower back were positively aching from standing for nearly thirty six hours straight. The case she was assisting Sherlock on was working her down to nothing.

"Thank you, Molly."

Molly felt a hand on the small of her back, propelling her forward. Just fourteen minutes ago, she and Sherlock agreed that she needed to take a nap; just a few minutes to help her body function for the next few hours so she could run toxicology reports on samples she took on the five post mortems she completed in the past twenty-four hours.

But then the sixth body rolled into the morgue and Sherlock cut her nap short only a few minutes after she fell asleep.

Molly walked into the morgue, shivering from the cold. She shook her head once to shake away the cobwebs and then she smiled tiredly at her boyfriend. "We have to catch him," she replied. The serial killer was evolving quickly and committing heinous murders throughout the streets of London. It was Lestrade's case, and he had the best men and women of New Scotland Yard working with him.

Sherlock quickly pressed a kiss to her temple and as he was pulling away the doors opened behind them.

"I have a liter of coffee. I'm not kidding. Drink up."

Molly turned to see Lestrade carrying four disposable cups of coffee. Lestrade looked as tired and haggard as she did, and she had a feeling that he was running on four or five hours of sleep in the last thirty six hours just like her.

"Be careful. You could probably get away with chewing this…crap." He picked up a cup and shoved it in Molly's hands. She needed the coffee the most, still having to perform the post mortem on the body that just came in. She chugged the cooled coffee with a grimace, feeling her stomach turn at the bitter not-quite-liquid she was drinking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then began prepping for the post mortem.

* * *

Molly spoke slowly and confidently into her recording device as she carefully went over the beginning routine of a post mortem. She ticked off her mental list: race, gender, weight, height, unusual scars and or tattoos, eye color, and hair color.

She had only started looking for puncture marks between the toes, a reoccurring pattern with the first five victims when the exploding sound of gunfire erupted in the morgue.

Molly jumped and looked up in time to see a gunman in all black and wearing a black mask aiming a gun at her. Before she could even gasp, a body collided with hers and knocked her to the ground, but not before more gunfire rained through the morgue.

* * *

For a moment, Molly just gasped for breath, her eyes squeezed shut. The heavy unfamiliar weight sitting on top of her was cutting off her air supply. After what felt like years but could only have been a handful of seconds, Molly opened her eyes to see Lestrade leaning heavily on her, breathing shallowly.

That was when she felt warmth soaking through her scrub top. Not feeling any pain, she knew that Lestrade was hit with a bullet. "Greg?" she asked, her voice shaking. Ignoring the fact that there was a madman with a gun in the morgue, she focused all her attention on the Detective Inspector on top of her. She touched his face with trembling fingers. "Greg?" she asked again.

Carefully he rolled off of her, laying on his back. Molly scrambled to her knees, her eyes going over his injury.

"Just the shoulder. Not gonna bleed out. Had worse," he croaked. Molly pressed her hand against the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. As she leaned over him, she realized he had his mobile phone out and was using her body as a shield. He was sending a text message.

It was then that Molly noticed it was nearly silent in the room. The hum of the refrigerator units nearly drowned out her heavy breathing. Her eyes swept over the floor, expecting to see Sherlock standing. She almost leapt to her feet when she saw him crumbled on the floor. "Oh God," she breathed.

He wasn't moving.

"What?" Lestrade whispered.

"Sherlock, he isn't moving."

Molly's jaw clamped shut when she heard footsteps coming towards her. Still on her knees, she looked up to see a gun in her face. "Stand up," the gunman declared.

On shaky legs, Molly stood up. She took a deep breath to quell her anxiety and stiffened her shoulders. She tried to slow her breathing and gather her composure; she was beginning to remember the tips she learned about hostage situations from a class her father made her take in Uni. She saw shifting from the corner of her eye and looked down briefly. Lestrade's face was scrunched in pain, but he was gripping his shoulder tightly. She felt the muzzle of a gun pressing between her shoulder blades. "Disarm him."

Molly's eyes widened, but she did as she was told, kneeling down once again. She took the gun that was holstered to Lestrade's hip and carefully handed it to the man behind her. For a moment she thought about shooting him, but then there was pressure of a gun against the back of her head and the thought disappeared.

She snapped her head in the direction of Sherlock when he groaned feebly. The gunman nudged the back of her head with his weapon and said, "Tend to your friend, mate."

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then she rose to her feet and took her first few steps forward. She knew Lestrade sent a message for help, so all she had to do was appease the gunman and stop further bloodshed until help arrived.

* * *

Molly knelt at Sherlock's side and pressed her index and middle fingers against his carotid pulse in his neck. She breathed, "Oh, thank God," when she found it. It was strong and steady beneath her fingertips. Then she carefully rolled him to his back, pushing his coat out of the way to see where he was shot.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered but he tried to stay conscious, his eyes glued on Molly as she slowly examined his injury. "Very good, Molly," he breathed.

Her eyes jumped to his when she realized he was awake. She smiled at him even though she was terrified for their safety. "I need to stop this bleeding." She pointed to the wound in his chest. "Can you put pressure on it?"

"I can try…" He moved his hands slowly, and Molly knew he was feeling weak from blood loss. She turned to the gunman who was watching them with interest.

"He needs a doctor," she pleaded.

"You're a doctor."

She had to tear her eyes away and look about the room. She needed something to help slow his blood flow. "Can I get towels?" she asked softly.

"Go ahead."

While Molly gathered supplies to stop the bleeding in Sherlock chest, Lestrade lost consciousness. The gunman made his discovery clear, and Molly quickly dropped her newly acquired towels by Sherlock's side and dashed to Lestrade. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she realized she should have taken a better and closer look at his injuries. She pressed her fingers against the pulse in his wrist and found it.

It wasn't very strong. And she imagined his blood pressure dropped.

Then Molly, using all of her body strength, dragged Lestrade closer to Sherlock. She needed to keep a close eye on both of them.

When she settled Lestrade by Sherlock, she wasted no time ripping off his clothes ignoring popped buttons and tearing as she exposed the man's upper body. "Oh no…" she breathed.

"What?" The gunman demanded.

"He's lost a lot of blood. I need to—I need—" Her mind was frantically going over what she should do. Her experience as a doctor didn't give enough of real world applications for this situation. She leaned away from Lestrade and nicked one of the towels. She pressed it against his shoulder.

She could feel panic building in her. Right now, these two men's lives were in her hands, and she was quickly losing control of the situation.

She hadn't realized that tears were blurring his vision until she felt a cool hand on her forearm. She turned and saw Sherlock's bloody hand on her. "You're doing fine," he said firmly. She could see that his breathing was becoming labored, and she had the feeling that there was damage to his lung.

"Is it hard to breathe?" she demanded, hoping he would tell her the truth.

"Feels like I'm drowning."

_Great!_ Molly blinked once at him and then looked at the gunman. "I need a doctor. Please. Or else both these men will die. He's lost a lot of blood," Molly said, indicating the unconscious detective. "And he's going to start drowning in his own blood if he doesn't get a chest tube to drain the fluids in his lungs! _Please_!"

The gunman actually shrank back from Molly's stern demands. For a moment Molly was startled and she exchanged a bewildered look with Sherlock, but then he stood up a bit straighter and shook his head. "You're a doctor," he repeated.

* * *

Molly hardly had half of the supplies needed to properly insert a chest tube to drain Sherlock's right lung, including the proper tubing for the surgery. The morgue was a place to perform post mortems, not lifesaving surgery. But she found iodine, latex gloves, several long plastic tubes, a needle and thread, and an endless supply of surgical tools like scalpels and other blades.

But there wasn't anything she could use as a local anesthetic and now wasn't the time to play chemistry.

"As a trained medical professional, what I'm about to do is highly dangerous, Sherlock. I need your consent to perform this surgery. You won't have any pain medication or antibiotics, which will make this very painful. I also haven't performed any x-rays or scans to ensure that this is the proper procedure to perform, but you need something fast or else…" Molly said firmly, hoping she was being clear with the risks he was about to take.

Sherlock reached for her hand and squeezed it as tightly as he could. "I trust you…and I've always trusted you."

Molly nodded her head once and then stood to her feet. "I must wash my hands."

The time she spent washing her hands she used to calm herself and mentally go through the procedure. As she was washing her hands, the gunman stood over Sherlock silently and watched as the Consulting Detective did his best to undress from the waist up. He was nearly delirious with pain and a crushing feeling in his chest, but he managed to undress by himself.

Molly returned to his side, now donning latex gloves. She took a steadying breath and carefully rolled a towel. "Bite down on this," she whispered.

Sherlock opened his mouth and Molly placed the rolled material between his teeth. Then she took his discarded clothing and coat and folded it up and placed it beneath him, elevating his chest. "Do you want me to talk you through it?" she asked as she manipulated his body into a better position.

He nodded his head.

Molly picked up the iodine and poured it over his right side, cleaning the area where she was about to perform surgery. "Okay. I'm using iodine to disinfect your skin to lower your chances of infection."

Before she could utter another word, the gunman was standing over them. "Shut up! SHUT UP!"

Molly took several deep breaths to steady her hands and clear her mind. She could feel the gunman's eyes on the back of her head, and she needed to do her best to ignore him. She performed post mortems with utmost precision; she could perform this surgery on her boyfriend just as well.

Molly had to ignore the choked gasp Sherlock emitted and focused on the fact that she was saving his life, or at least trying to.

Once she made the small one inch incision she was on autopilot, carefully guiding the small tube into the incision so she could begin to drain his right lung. As she was inserting the chest tube, she would pause for a few seconds to monitor Sherlock's vitals and ascertain that he was at least still conscious.

When the tube was inserted, Molly breathed a sigh of relief when the gravity took over and began draining the blood around his lung.

After carefully stitching him up and securing the tube, Molly took a moment to breathe. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay," she whispered, getting on her knees and crushing his head against her chest. He spit out the towel in his mouth and murmured,

"I can breathe."

Molly could hear the gunman pacing behind her and she quickly pulled away from Sherlock. She patted his head and he smiled at her, despite the pain he was in. "You are brilliant," he whispered.

It took everything in Molly not to kiss him.

She turned away from him and looked at Lestrade. Because she couldn't keep pressure on his gunshot wound while performing emergency surgery on Sherlock, she used tape and taped a towel tightly to his shoulder before man handling him onto his side, tilting his head back and moving his legs so they rested at 90 degree angles. She checked his pulse and was pleased that it was bit faster and that the bleeding stopped in his shoulder.

"Is he breathing?" Sherlock murmured.

"Yes," Molly croaked. Her hands were beginning to shake. She looked at Sherlock and he was glaring at the gunman. He was still pacing, and he looked distracted. Molly slowly looked at him and tried to deduce the best she could.

The gunman hadn't spoken much after the initial gun violence.

He allowed her to perform medical procedures on both Lestrade and Sherlock without complaint. He even encouraged Molly's initial examination of the Consulting Detective.

He had a false sense of confidence. It was obvious he was used to taking orders after Molly demanded a medical professional be allowed into the room.

And what was even more strange…he hadn't checked them for cell phones. Molly's was in her office, but Lestrade managed to send out an emergency text right after being shot, and Molly would bet everything that Sherlock's phone was in his Belstaff. She looked at Sherlock's coat and then caught his eye.

He was thinking the same thing.

"He's a distraction," Sherlock mouthed. Molly nodded her head.

That meant something even bigger was happening within the hospital.

* * *

After an hour of sitting in tense silence, the gunman pacing nervously about the room, Molly started hinting at getting Sherlock out of the room. "He's in dire need of medical attention—something I can't provide for him here."

She was alarmed when the gunman growled out, "He won't have long anyway."

She swallowed thickly and then stood up. The gunman didn't notice. "What can I do for you? Do you need something?"

"I NEED YOU TO SIT DOWN!"

Molly flinched but didn't back down. "If you're looking for—" Molly bit back a scream when he rounded on her and grabbed her by her hair.

"WHAT DID I SAY?!" he shouted. He shook her once, and then bared his teeth at her, as if he were an animal. Molly's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak. "You're coming with me. You're my ticket out of here. The police have this place surrounded. If they shoot me, they'll shoot you." He pulled her backwards and Molly saw Sherlock struggling to stand.

"Don't move!" she cried. "The chest tube!"

The door behind them was already unlocked, and he was prepared to drag her out of there. As he pulled her closer to the door, Molly could hear chaos erupting in the hallway. It didn't sound like police, but rather men arguing about something.

Molly did not want to be dragged into that melee. Not when Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade were depending on her for their safety. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, she did something that she would later claim to be one of the most dangerous things she'd ever done in her life. She twisted in his grip and kneed the gunman in his groin. His gasp of shock was drowned out by the sound of the gun going off; Molly knocked it out of his hands, forgetting that it was a loaded weapon with the safety off.

Luckily no one was hurt.

Then Molly jabbed him in the eyes, thrust her hand against his nose, and then pushed him backwards and slammed his head into the doors. The commotion caused the men to stop arguing and Molly wasted no time in locking the door.

Then she scrambled over to Lestrade and dug through his pockets until she found two sets of handcuffs. With the gunman still disoriented, she handcuffed each hand to an ankle. She dragged the man away from the door and then got his discarded gun.

By the time she returned to Sherlock's side with a gun in her hands, he was slumped on the floor, unconscious. She had to search his pockets before finding his phone.

He had a million missed calls. John, Mycroft, Sally Donovan, and unknown numbers. She had a feeling John was somehow in the know about this, considering he was on his way to St. Bart's when this all started to go down.

She called him back first. The initial ring barely went through all the way before it was answered. "Thank _fucking_ Christ, Sherlock!"

"It's Molly!" she gasped, clutching the phone to her ear. She could see the men peering into the morgue from the door. One man was brandishing his gun wildly. "I'm in a bit of trouble. A man—"

"Yes, the entire hospital is on lockdown. The police just breeched the door on the roof. They should be on their way to you. There are four gunman altogether—"

"Well I incapacitated one and three others are staring at me through the door. Help is on the way?" she asked.

"Yes. Is everyone alright?"

"No. Not at all. Greg and Sherlock need to go to the hospital right away. Lestrade was shot and has lost a lot of blood and I imagine he might be in shock. Sherlock has a homemade chest tube to drain blood that was filling his chest cavity from a bullet wound. He's unconscious right now, but breathing steady—I think it was from the pain and stress of our situation. And I might be going into a bit of shock as well." Her hands were shaking uncontrollably and her vision was tunneling. She could feel sweat soaking through her clothes. She tightened her grip on the phone.

Just then, she heard shouting once again in the hall. The police had arrived.

Then she fainted.

* * *

_"She hasn't slept in 36 hours!"_

_"I understand, but—"_

_"She performed five and started a sixth post mortem back to back over the course of one and a half days. And she was calm and collected while being held hostage for several hours, she performed emergency surgery to save your brother's life, she stopped Greg from bleeding to death, she incapacitated a man twice the size of her and handcuffed him so he wouldn't hurt anyone else, and managed to hold the attention of three other gunmen so the police could apprehend them without anyone else getting hurt! The least you could do is let her rest!"_

_"Fine, Doctor Watson."_

Molly Hooper allowed the conversation she just overheard wash over her. _We were held for several hours? I did all of that? How am I awake? And why is it so hot?! _She opened her eyes slowly and the first thing she noticed was that Sherlock Holmes wrapped around her like an octopus. His arms and legs were entwined with hers, and his head was nestled against her shoulder. She relished in his slow and even breathing.

Then she turned her head and saw John Watson sitting in a chair beside her bed. He smiled at her kindly, his eyes shining brightly. "He managed to escape from his room and find you. I've convinced the nurses to let him stay the night but he has to return to the ICU in the morning."

"He's alright?"

He nodded his head. "You saved his life with that chest tube." He reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. "He got out of the theater about an hour ago, and should be out of here in a day or two."

"And Greg?"

"His operation just finished a few minutes ago. He isn't awake yet, but the doctors said he will have an easy recovery." He gave her hand another squeeze. "You did brilliantly today, Molly."

"My line," Sherlock groaned, lifting his head. Even with his body pumped full of medication, he did his level best to glare at John. John just laughed and leaned back in his seat. After a moment, Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his lips against her shoulder. "Beautiful Molly. Brilliant Molly. Good, good, good." He rested his cheek against the spot his just kissed and promptly fell asleep.

Molly giggled a bit and John rolled his eyes. "Can you tell me what happened?"

John moved to the edge of his seat. "You know the case Sherlock was working on? Six bodies came into your morgue?" Molly nodded her head in assent "Well, the bloke who did all the killing was in charge of the three other men. They got into Bart's and the man who was with you split off from the group after seeing you in the morgue. The others went to your office and were searching for evidence or autopsy notes or something," John waved his hand around, making it clear that he didn't know the details. "The gunfire was not part of the plan, that I know for sure, and they barricaded themselves in your office, and Lestrade texted Sally Donovan. They evacuated the whole hospital, except where you were.

"Then this is where it gets a bit…just stupid, really," John said, taking a breath, "The other men just opened fire, destroying equipment in the lab, the phone and security systems—everything! That's why everyone was trying to contact you, Greg, and Sherlock. No one else could get in through the hospital.

"So after they realized that they couldn't even negotiate with the police, they tried finding hostages, and that's why you were kept for so long. They were trying to figure out their bargaining chip."

"Were they communicating to each other?"

"The bloke in the morgue had an earpiece that the leader was talking to him through."

Molly sighed and shook her head. "They didn't think this through at all."

"They didn't." John moved to the edge of his seat and gripped Molly's hand tightly. "But you should be proud of yourself, Molly. Because you handled the situation so well, no one died!"

"John!"

Both Molly and John jumped at the sound of Sherlock's booming voice.

"What?" he asked, exasperated.

"It is my job to inform Molly of how brilliant she is and how proud I am of her! Go bother someone else's girlfriend!"

Sherlock wasn't as asleep as they thought.

Molly tilted her head back and Sherlock was once again glaring at John. She glanced back at the other man and he was shaking his head slowly. Then he stood up and squeezed Molly's hand one last time. "I'll be in to visit tomorrow sometime."

After John left, Molly felt Sherlock plant butterfly kisses on her neck and shoulders. His hands and legs kept a tight hold of her. "You are a very strong woman, Molly," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "You were under a bit of stress today, and you…you were just beautiful. And smart. And—and—" he yawned and pressed his face against her shoulder, refusing to loosen his grip on her. "I'm having a hard time thinking right now."

Molly giggled and patted one of the hands that had a fierce grip on her. "It's alright. I'll eagerly be waiting for your praises after you sleep off all this medication."

"Hmm…" he hummed, nuzzling her again.

Molly pressed a kiss to Sherlock's arm and then closed her eyes, burrowing into his embrace. She was ready to sleep the rest of the day away, and she definitely deserved it.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! And hopefully chapter six (or seven, I can't remember...) of The First Twenty-Five Days of December will be posted by the end of the day!


End file.
